


Outside the Box

by Telaryn



Category: Leverage
Genre: Emotional Baggage, Episode Tag, Gen, Headcanon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-18
Updated: 2012-09-18
Packaged: 2017-11-14 13:27:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/515697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Telaryn/pseuds/Telaryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eliot falls back into old patterns when trying to process his emotions about the shootout in the warehouse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Outside the Box

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for [](http://moonchildfic.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://moonchildfic.livejournal.com/)**moonchildfic** as thanks for participating in the 2011 Leverage Exchange.
> 
> Contains incidents of self-injury by a major character. May be triggering. Also spoilers for events in The Big Bang Job.

None of the others noticed – Nate was the only one who had even the slightest idea what he'd done in the warehouse in Washington, and he was also the one most likely to take Eliot's word that everything was fine. The numbness had settled in shortly afterwards, a heaviness in his limbs and brain that was manageable as long as they didn't have a job to worry about. He didn't need to be the fastest or the strongest in order to get through a normal day.

At least that's what Eliot tried to tell himself.

Eventually he went looking for the knife. It was a custom job that he'd picked up in Iraq, following his separation from Moreau's service in Belgrade, and Eliot had only ever used it for one thing. He found it after a night's search through the boxes where he kept the few things he'd held onto from his paramilitary days. He took his time cleaning and sterilizing the blade, then laid out a towel and set the steel against the skin of his upper arm.

He exhaled slowly as the knife bit into his flesh, drawing the cut out until he had set a six inch bloody line across his arm. Pain flared across his nerves, spiking his adrenaline levels and kicking his heartbeat up a couple notches. Eliot moaned softly, watching the blood trace thick lines down his arm as sensation washed over him – sweeping the numbness away.

It wasn't an ideal solution, but it was a solution. He cleaned the wound and applied pressure until it scabbed over, then cleaned the knife and put it away in his bedside table. That night he slept without dreaming. And three days later when he was sitting in a briefing for their next job, Eliot felt more like himself than he had in months.

He managed to keep it together until the end of the con, when three meatheads tried standing between him and Sophie. Eliot took them out with minimal effort, and extracted Sophie without injury, but by the time they were heading home, the familiar heaviness was starting to seep into his limbs again. And when he fell asleep, he dreamed about Parker being at the mercy of Moreau's men.

 _Jesus._ Eliot was groping in his bedside table before he was even fully awake this time. This cut was sloppier, less ritualistic than the first, but the tightness in his chest loosened almost immediately, enabling him to draw a deep, steadying breath.

He was able to go back to sleep then, and even though he dreamed it wasn't nearly on the same plane as the nightmare he'd had before.

On some level Eliot knew it wasn't the best plan. He'd been on his own the last time he'd used the knife to heal himself, and it had still taken two years to shake the damage done by his time in Moreau's service. Now he had other people who relied on him – lives who depended on him. He couldn't afford to be out of commission for long.

Days spun into weeks and into months after that. They took one job after another, and Eliot coped the best he could. Then finally the inevitable happened, and he ran up against a group of mercenaries who understood the concept of strength in numbers. They got him to the hospital in time to save his life, but it was another three days before he regained consciousness.

When he finally opened his eyes, Nate was sitting by his bed. The mastermind looked exhausted - the strain of worry about Eliot coupled with the stress of being in a hospital in the first place had clearly taken its toll.

“Hey boss,” he croaked. Nate started at the sound of his voice, smiling when he saw Eliot was awake and alert.

“Don't try to talk,” he said, straightening up and groping for the water. “The oxygen's probably turned your throat to sandpaper.” He poured half a cup of water, and tilted the bendy straw so Eliot could reach it. The water was room temperature, and he could taste the softener on the back of his tongue, but it did the job. He nodded his thanks at Nate, who took the cup away immediately and set it aside.

“This one was bad,” Nate said after a moment of silence. “You’re going to be here a while, and there’s going to be rehab involved.”

Startled, Eliot tried to assess his own physical condition. He could feel aches and pains from head to toe, but they were too distant to give him any useful information. He glanced up at his IV, then back at Nate. “Morphine?” he asked, grateful that his voice sounded more normal this time.

The older man nodded. “You’ve also been in surgery. I’m not kidding, Eliot – we nearly lost you this time.” Eliot realized that Nate was angry with him, but it was a different sort of anger than he was used to seeing in the mastermind.

“I’m all right, Dad,” he said with a tired smile, trying to diffuse some of the tension in the room.

Nate wasn’t buying it. “Don’t you fucking do that to me,” he snapped. “Don’t pretend like it wouldn’t be a big deal if you died on us.”

Eliot realized – too late – that his drug-addled brain wasn’t reacting right. It was a big deal; the fact that Nate was here, looking like he hadn’t slept in days, was proof of that. “I’m sorry,” he said, groping for the other man’s hand. Nate took it and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

Eliot glanced up at the IV again. “Can you get them to back off the morphine?” he asked Nate. “Makes me stupid.”

Nate looked like he was going to argue for a second, then nodded with a small sigh. “Things are going to change,” he said, leaning his forearms on the guardrail of the bed and looking at Eliot. “I don’t know how, but we’re going to talk about it once you’re out of here. I’m done watching you take stupid chances.”

He was too tired to argue, even though he had the solid position of being able to point out Nate’s plans lately had seemed to involve little more than “let’s watch Eliot take stupid chances”. Instead he nodded. “Okay.”

He’d half-expected Nate to change the subject then, or use the opportunity of Eliot being out of danger to beat a hasty retreat from the hospital to the nearest bar. Instead, he realized the mastermind was still staring at him…and that he was frighteningly sober. “Tell me about those.”

Confused, Eliot tracked Nate’s line of sight and realized that he was looking at Eliot’s upper arm – and the two oldest slice marks. “Knife,” he said. “From that job last month. You remember those meatheads I had to take out?”

The drugs kept him from selling the lie as 100% truth. Nate met his gaze with no hint of judgment in his own eyes. “Did you know that recent studies are showing a dramatic rise in self-injury reports from veterans?”

Eliot swallowed - his throat suddenly dry again. “VA shrinks aren’t real good at thinking outside the box,” he said finally. Suddenly self-conscious, he twitched the sleeve of his hospital gown, until the wounds were hidden. “How did you know?”

“When I was in seminary, I did an internship at a state hospital,” Nate said gently. “Belmont. The floor I worked on was mostly teenage girls – you learn to recognize the signs.”

 _Great._ “You’re not making me feel better about this, you know,” Eliot grumbled. The last thing he wanted was an opening for Hardison to tease him about being some kind of emo girl.

Nate seemed to understand immediately where his thoughts were heading. “I haven’t said anything to the others,” he said. “And I’m not going to.”

That surprised Eliot. “What’s the catch?” He was sure he had it under control, but that wasn’t the kind of thing you could typically convince someone who wasn’t engaging in the same kind of activity.

“The catch is that I’m going to find you somebody who is capable of thinking outside the box.” Nate sighed. “And you’re going to talk to them about what happened in that warehouse, because this isn’t the way to deal with it.” He paused, and Eliot could see him struggling to find the words for what he wanted to say next.

“You saved my life by picking up that gun,” he said finally, taking Eliot’s hand again. “I’m not going to pay you back by sitting by while you destroy yourself in a million little ways about it.” He smiled. “And if you ever want off that morphine or out of this hospital, you’ll swallow all those arguments I see you coming up with and do what I ask.”


End file.
